Satish Verma, 26 june 2017
The sun beats mercilessly.
A coastline invites the violence
of the great lake.
A sinking feeling of a boat. The battle
of tides and limbs. You can see
the colors, the dragons
flying. The blasted sky
and blackened clouds. A shriek
sets the lake on fire, as the dusk sets in.
A tribal instinct to burn
the fences, set the horizons
free for a new comet, landing from
unknown space. You want to touch
the lips of a mute, blotted moon.
Fireflies start dotting the night.
You move inward; find a dark
niche to graze the wounds. The hurt
brings the words. You pick up an
axe and start chopping
the dead wood.
Satish Verma, 24 june 2017
This music was insane.
Do not pluck the wounded apples
of conjugal extraction.
The volatility was increasing.
Shades of blue were
sharpening. The intrusive moon
will decide the fate of
fossilized fracture. The death
came by the back door.
The rough edges are to
be smothered, after a back
encounter. The saint was ready.
The anxiety overwhelms. You
try to find a small window
to bring in the song bird.
Satish Verma, 23 june 2017
You could feel it.
The fear in that pristine howl
writhing in throat. Something was
wrong with the sunflowers. A genital
cutting had brought the snowdusting
on mutilated emotions.
A premonition warns. We are shining
on wrong side, under dictates of religion.
The cult will take care of mouth. You
will celebrate the breaking up of man.
The bone between the lips.
I am collecting the dirty threads of
loyalty to stitch the amnesia. They were ready to
applause the demise of moon. No more
sheen on the trees, lake and hills.
I am hauling up the skeletion of the republic.
Joe Breunig, 22 june 2017
Isn’t it time, that we stop crying,
for deliverance from circumstance’s
punishment, when we really should
be begging to be freed from our sin?
His Word teaches us that escaping
the results of ‘Sowing and Reaping’
is not feasible; our given ability
to reason, isn’t diminished when…
we have the Hope of Christ within.
Instead, we ought to be willing
to end production of needless pain
towards our God; anxiety and fears
prevents us from pushing forward in
victory, although we’re working and
striving towards… a worthwhile gain.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Heb 12:1; 1 Cor 9:24 and
We cry too often to be delivered from the
punishment, instead of the sin that lies
behind it. We are anxious to escape from
the things that cause us pain rather than
from the things that cause God pain.
-G. Campbell Morgan
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 22 june 2017
I’d rather live for Christ
and not burn in Hell; yet, I
won’t apologize for sharing
a Faith of… an eternal Life.
Promoting The Kingdom of God
is an interesting challenge;
His wisdom transcends that of
mortal men, while using flawed
souls like me. I have chosen
to evangelize with His sacred
tenets of Truth; I praise Him,
knowing that I serve a risen
Savior, Lord and King of Kings;
through my poetry, I will sing
of His greatness, mercy, Love
and enduring peace… He brings.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 1:25; Psa 136:3; Rev 19:16;
Phil 4:7-9
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 22 june 2017
After the civil war in temples
a wodden god
with broken nose, was walking
with a stick.
Half-way to home
he wanted to turn back
and meet his shadow
in the lake.
A mountain goat climbs
down the rocks to become
a martyr. Leaps into a dark
stream clinging to the veil.
A blue pine takes a bath
in the summer rain. A
midnight moon will call the spirits
to dance for gamblers.
Satish Verma, 21 june 2017
The riot was within.
Not getting along with social
revolution you would lie
on purple patch without seeking
any privy.
Who were the barbarians
which were going to release
the brutal pattern of bloodshed
during sunset on
the lake?
A mistrial will dispatch
the violence and you will drop
dead on the dirt path leading
to bed of roses. A theme will
wait for the signing of the book.
Someone punched you in solar
plexus. You said, I don’t
die daily to live.
Satish Verma, 19 june 2017
The silence of the road
intends to pause the observer’s speed.
Unchanged continuity
had a cubic quality.
Presenting yourself to lick salt
before molestation.
The sanctity
stands violated.
The horror thing looms
large, neatly dressed
dancing in your boots.
The path ends at a tree.
You misprint the name
of a tormentor.
Man becomes a beast
in a love triangle.
Satish Verma, 18 june 2017
Anatomy of fear,
is revealed before me.
Like a red flower opens.
A shadowless figure, deathly-white
holds my hand.
You watch the wounded earth
athirst, fumbling to catch the
greens. Vomited blood when her womb
was upturned to release the metal.
Civet will leave the trail on convicted
grass. The iron grip of greedy
windows. The red ant hills were
spewing white eggs. Now rains
were coming.
Unkempt my house waits for
the ending of truth. What I mean
you will not know. The law always finds
a black veil to cover the face.
Sztelak Marcin, 17 june 2017
Młode liście zarastają powidoki
zza okien, bezszybnych.
Wiatr wygrywa pieśni żałobne
na prawie pustych butelkach.
Więc, mimo widocznej entropii,
spijam resztki. Wypalają znaki
po wewnętrznej stronie cienioświatła.
Chociaż zawsze twierdzono, że to mrok,
jednak splątany w świeże pędy
poznaję prawdę. Aktualnie jedyną
dostępną.
Męczą mnie wspomnienia ciężkich gron
pękających z trzaskiem. A słodki sok
napełniał ziemię.
Teraz nastał czas wzrostu,
ale ten nie napawa już otuchą.
Przekornie więdnę, zapadając coraz głębiej
w gęstniejące powietrze.
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